The Notes
by B00ksy9
Summary: "The notes keep coming, getting worse, asking the same question. A question I'm desperately trying to answer." Draco's PoV, 8th year. Rated for self harm and suicide.


**Another Draco story! I don't know why but I find it easy to write Draco.**

**Trigger warnings: there is self harm in this, if you think you might be triggered, don't read.**

**There's also suicide and some quite nasty stuff, torment particularly.**

_You are a murderer. Leave Hogwarts._

They weren't too bad to begin with. I mean, they obviously weren't pleasant, but I could deal with them.

I didn't tell anyone about them. Every time I found one, I would read it, burning the words into my mind, before throwing them onto the fire. And I'd get on with my life until the next one came.

They got worse though.

_Leave Hogwarts before we hurt you. Before we kill you. Kill yourself before we can get to you. _

I started to get scared. And I started to cut. It shouldn't have helped but it felt so good, like I was letting out everything bad and becoming something new, something better. But every time I stopped, and another note came, I felt like... I was what they said. A murderer, who deserved to die. And so often I came close to doing it. I don't know how many times I moved the knife to lie across my wrist. I even started to press, dragging the blade across, but I always stopped before it went too far.

I was too scared to even finish this.

I read the most recent note.

_Jump off the Tower. No one cares about you. No one would miss you. _

I screw it up and fling it into the flames, fists clenching as I start to cry. I fumble down the side of my bed until I feel cool metal. I pull the knife up and set it on my arm, crossing the many faded, white scars, and I push. A red line forms across my skin and blood trickles down my elbow, mingling with my tears. I know what I'm doing is wrong and isn't helping but I can't stop, it feels right.

What the note says is true. If I died I wouldn't be missed. My father is gone. He disappeared after the last battle. Mother is going mad. Soon she won't recognise me at all. None of my old friends came to finish 7th year and it's been impossible to make any new ones because of my role in the war. People draw away from me when I walk through the corridors and no-one talks to me unless they really have to. No-one trusts me.

They're right not to, though. I was a Death Eater, assistant to murder and torture. I don't want sympathy. I just want peace.

I cut twice more, deeper than I ever have before, gasping with the pain, and it hurts so much but I need it. When I'm done I drop the knife behind my bed again. I carefully wash away the blood and heal the cuts, just enough to stop the bleeding, not enough to stop the pain, in a well-practiced routine.

Then I grab my school bag and leave the dormitory, shaking my sleeves over my disfigured arms as I trudge up the stone spiral staircase. No-one's found out yet and I don't intend anyone ever to.

Charms drags on. Nothing practical today, just revising a bunch of theory for our upcoming NEWTs. I watch the hands of my watch tick around slowly, waiting for the bell that signals the end of another day I wish I wasn't here for.

If I just had the guts to end it, I wouldn't have to be living this hell. But I'm too scared. I've always been a coward and it's all I'll ever be.

As soon as the bell goes I'm gone, hurrying back to my dormitory and my bed. The green light makes me feel sick and the stairs don't exactly help. I lie on my duvet for a while, then decide to have a shower. Hopefully it will make me feel better. As I head into the bathroom, grabbing a towel from my trunk as I go. A piece of parchment flutters to the floor, having fallen from the towel. I see my name scrawled on it and reach down with trembling fingers to pick it up. I know it's another one, but this is the first time I've found one inside my own dormitory. It scares me that they can get this close.

I shouldn't read it. They always terrify me and make me feel so awful. I never want to read them, but I can never stop myself. There's this sort of morbid curiosity whenever I try to leave them.

I unfold the note slowly.

_Why aren't you dead yet?_

I drop it like it's burnt me. It has asked the question I've been asking myself for the last few months, and the sender knows this. I can tell; the words have a certain smugness to them.

Why _aren't_ I dead yet?

Hopefully I won't have to be asking this much longer. Instead of a shower I pour a bath. I climb in after stripping, sinking into the warm water and closing my eyes. For a while I just lie there, then I decide this is it. I take a few deep breaths and plunge under the water, clutching the sides of the bath so I don't drift to the surface.

All I can see is swirling water and bubbles and confusion. Slowly, my lungs start to ache. It's taking everything to keep my head under the water and my chest feels like it's about to explode. I imagine pulling my face out and taking a breath, but I grit my teeth and let out the last of my air in a silent scream.

Black spots pop in my vision and I feel dizzy. I'm on the brink of breathing in water when instinct forces me up. I breathe clear air, gasping. But as soon as I have the energy, I punch the side of the bath in frustration and swear furiously. Again, it hasn't worked, and again, I'm still here.

Why am I not dead yet?


End file.
